


A Scar I Can Talk About

by LucySpencer



Series: Those Graces [32]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, I Made Myself Cry, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Not What It Looks Like, POV Second Person, Sorry Not Sorry, The Author Regrets Nothing, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, This keeps happening, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, all the colors mix together to grey, and it breaks her heart, but first it will piss you off, seriously what am I doing, the truth will set you free, you guys this is getting out of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:09:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucySpencer/pseuds/LucySpencer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>how did I come to this? I dream myself a thousand times around the world, but I can't get out of this place.</i> Set during psycho/therapist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Scar I Can Talk About

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! Let's find out what I've come up with this week.
> 
> Have you been commenting? If so, I love you. If you're shy, I love you too- but don't be shy. I loooove hearing people's thoughts/predictions/reactions. If you want to find me on twitter, hit me up at lucythespencer. I'm a moderately nice person! :D
> 
> This one is a little shorter than usual, but I wanted to leave off at the worst possible point so you'll have something to ponder until I get around to updating again. You're welcome.
> 
> **A/N:** warnings for violent/disturbing references. You should pretty much just expect this until further notice. Quotes from _grey street_ by dave matthews, title from _bright lights_ by matchbox 20. There's a line in here "borrowed" from Aaron Sorkin and changed a bit for my own purposes- major props to anyone who actually spots it.
> 
> This chapter begins with the scene from Psycho/Therapist where Olivia and Barba are discussing Lewis' proposed deal and continues from there.
> 
> P.S. reserve your judgment on elliot- I promise, it'll all make sense in the next chapter ;)

_{just look at how she listens_  
she says nothing of what she thinks  
she just goes stumbling through her memories  
staring out onto Grey Street} 

"No. You heard me. What am I missing here? What's in it for him other than a captive audience? Nothing. I can't believe you're in favor of this."

"I didn't say I'm in favor of it, Olivia. I said this may be a beginning point and we can negotiate from here. Forget the rape charge, that's a non-starter unless you're willing to swear under oath that what he says happened, happened."

"Is that your way of saying that you think I lied?" you ask, wondering what Barba's reaction would be if you started drinking right here in his office. You'd excuse yourself for a bathroom break if it wasn't for Brian, who is still loitering right outside the door waiting for you. He wanted to invite himself into this conversation, and you're not sure who was quicker to say 'absolutely not,' you or Barba.

"I'm not calling you a liar. I'm saying sometimes things get left out. We both know it happens." 

You gulp for breath and try to banish the mental image of yourself with your pants shoved down to your ankles, blood and other things you can't even think about painting your skin as your knees hit the cold white linoleum. "I've told you everything. There's nothing left to tell. If you think-"

"I don't. Let's go back to the issue at hand," he decides. "You need to understand- the judge isn't going to let him get up there and just be gratuitously vulgar."

"Doesn't mean he won't try. Didn't you see the way he was milking his injuries for sympathy this morning? The whole world's a stage for him." 

"That's what I'm trying to say, Olivia. If you think that's bad, what do you think he's going to do in front of a jury? Not only was he hurt in the...altercation he had with you, but then you sent your boyfriend after him to finish the job."

"I had nothing to do with it! You know that, he knows that- do you see me being charged with anything?"

"No, but it doesn't matter. I've got the whole room wondering now," Barba says. "Not to mention they're doubting your honesty."

"And how many times do I have to tell you he's not my boyfriend? It's 2013, am I not allowed to have male friends without people automatically assuming we're sleeping together?"

"Have you talked to him since this, uh, incident?"

"You told me not to, so no." He presses his lips together tightly. "Are you just going to keep questioning everything I say?!"

"Olivia. Listen to me. You're a smart woman, you've seen enough to know that we're fighting an uphill battle with this one."

'Because of you,' is what you hear implied. "Yeah. I'm aware."

"You know that when you take the stand...I don't want you to have to go through that. I want this to be over so that you can start living your life. That's what I want for you as a friend. As a prosecutor- I want to go for the sure thing," he says, ticking each point off on his fingers. "And as a human being, I don't want there to be any chance of this guy roaming the earth ever again."

"So what you're saying is that you don't think we can win this."

"No, but I'm saying there's more than enough the defense can use to create reasonable doubt about your testimony, and when this is essentially a he said/she said scenario..."

"Bullshit. It's a 'we both said' scenario. If anything, _he's_ the one who wants to exaggerate. We both basically agree on the facts."

"He's disputing the aggravated one charge," aka the incident with the gun, and of course he is- it's the only one that potentially carries a life sentence on its own. "Which is one of our weak spots."

"I know that. I get it, you don't have to remind me."

"But his attorney will, and it'll make the jury start questioning what else you might have tried to keep hidden. Not to mention once the subject of his injuries comes up...you agree to this, he goes away for life _and_ you avoid opening yourself up to further scrutiny after the trial ends."

You groan in what you hope is the manner of an indignant, falsely accused woman. "So is there _anything_ I've said that you actually believe, Counsellor?"

"Olivia." Unwilling to take the bait, he sits down in a chair next to where you're perched on the edge of the table. "You say yes to this, and the whole thing can be over before New Year's. You don't have to live with the uncertainty any more, you don't have to go through all the trauma of rehashing it on the stand- it's _done_."

"Why don't you just admit it? You have no confidence in me, in this case."

"I have more confidence in a sure thing than I do in a jury. I'm not a gambling man."

You picture him in a gaudy high roller suite at Caesar's, and it momentarily takes away your urge to reach across the table and grab him by the suspenders to give him a good shake. "Fine. But I still say no."

"You know that ultimately Cutter has the final word. He can cut a deal with or without your approval," he says, voice lowering.

"Are you _threatening_ me?"

"I'm being honest with you."

"Well then, get in line." You stand up and go back to peering out through the curtains at the world below, at people going about their seemingly carefree daily lives. "Behind everyone else who thinks they know what's best for me."

"Olivia-"

"It's really amazing, y'know, how everybody else has figured out what I should do and say and feel and...never mind. I'm not wasting my breath when you and Cutter clearly have this all planned already."

"I haven't said a word about it to him yet. I wouldn't do that without talking to you first...it's _your_ life, after all," he says, echoing your earlier outburst. "Olivia...please don't take this the wrong way because I'm just trying to understand- what is it about this that bothers you so much?"

"Am I supposed to give you a list?" you ask, deliberately ignoring the question.

"All I want's to figure out where you're coming from. You're worried about certain...details being made public, I know." He gives you a sympathetic frown and you turn your head away from him because...fuck that. "But. I hate to say this, but they're going to come out whether or not this goes to trial."

"And you think I don't know that? Listen. If it's going to come from anyone, it's going to be me. He got what he wanted before. He's not gonna get off on reliving it in front of a crowd, I'm not going to let him. You heard what he said to Elliot..." And that was it, you spoke the magic word, because the second you said his name you were clapping your hand over your mouth, biting down on the fleshy part of your palm to keep from crying. 

They must not teach you how to read people at Harvard Law, because for all his sarcastic quips, only now does Barba seem to be realizing that this Elliot thing runs a lot deeper than whatever he had assumed. They did seem to teach that old adage about discretion being the better part of valor, though- or else he just knew not to ask questions that he didn't want the answer to. "I promise you, the judge isn't going to let him-"

"This is all I have, okay? I had no control over what he did to me, I have no control over what other people think and how they treat me...I'm not sure I'm even in control of my own fucking head anymore! But I have this and it's _my_ story, not his. He already got to Elliot, he told him everything I _never_ wanted him to know- you said the details are going to come out whether or not this goes to trial, right? So if that's how it's gonna go, then it's going to come from _me_. Period."

Barba is silent, nodding to himself, and you're about to ask what the fuck his problem is when he finally speaks. "If we go through with the trial, I'll need you to be perfect up there on the stand, because I know you can do it. Are you with me on that?"

"I can do it," you repeat. And you will, because there's no other option.

He stands up, lightly touching your elbow in reassurance. "I do still have to run it by Cutter, but I'm pretty confident he'll go along with my recommendation. Then I'll call you before I let Lewis's attorney know there's no deal."

"Yeah. I...okay. Okay."

"Olivia," he calls out as you reach for the door, looking up from a stack of file folders when you turn toward him. "Just so we're clear...I believe you. Wholeheartedly. I'd never let this go to trial if I didn't."

You give him a tight smile, mouthing 'okay' one more time before stepping out into the hallway. Brian is right there, stalking back and forth like a guy in an old movie who's waiting for the nurse to tell him his baby's here so that he can start handing out cigars. "Goddamn, finally- what took you so long?"

"We had stuff to go over, that's all. Let's just head home and we can talk about it later."

"No- what's that look? I know that look," he says, frowning and grabbing onto the door handle before it can swing shut all the way. "Seriously, man, what's your problem?"

"My problem?" Barba repeats crisply.

"Yeah! Every single time you two talk, she gets upset. What the hell kind of lawyer are you, anyway?"

You reach out for his hand, quietly pleading. "Brian, don't. I just want to go home."

"No, I wanna know, is that what it actually says in the fine print on your big fancy diploma? 'Worst Lawyer Ever'? Because the last time I checked, you're supposed to be on her side."

"Brian. Stop talking."

"As much as I would love to sit down with you and have you educate me on what I missed at law school, I'm afraid I'm late for an appointment to make someone else cry." Barba picks his briefcase up off the desk, brushing past you on his way through the door. As he does, he motions to you and you lean toward him so that Brian can't hear what he's saying. "Gotta tell you, Liv, I like Stabler more and more every time I see this guy."

Behind you, Brian's muttering something about asshats with suspenders. Barba gives you a knowing look and then he's gone before you can reply. 

Wow. It's like you told him before- everyone's a critic.

_{she says please, there's a crazy man_  
that's creeping outside my door  
I live on the corner of a dead end street  
at the end of the world} 

_«I've ruined you for anyone else, sweetheart»_

He's grabbing you around the throat so you can't keep trying to turn your head away from him, but that doesn't stop you from gagging when he forces his tongue inside your mouth. _«you ungrateful little bitch. a minute ago you were begging for it.»_

He lets go of you and stands up, throwing your closet door open and pushing things aside until he finds what he's looking for. You can't stop yourself from screaming when you see him twisting a wire hanger in his hands and-

"Liv. Liv!" 

When you open your eyes you're face down on the rug, a throw pillow being the only thing that kept your head from hitting the floor. "I'm..."

Brian switches the lamp on, palm scrubbing over his face tiredly. "You fell down when you tried to get up." He knows by now that any attempt to touch you while you're dreaming will automatically make things worse for both of you. "Need a hand?"

You shake your head, grabbing onto the edge of the couch as you pull yourself up off the floor. Brian busies himself with going into the kitchen and getting your water bottle out of the fridge. Both of you have gotten this routine down to a science by now, seeing as how it's the third time tonight that you've woken up screaming. The nightmares are back in full force, as bad as they ever were last summer, meaning sleepless nights for both of you all over again.

"Thanks," you say when he hands you your water, taking a few sips as you pace back and forth across the living room. 

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Promise me you'll call the doctor in the morning. There has to be _something_ he can give you so you'll actually sleep."

"I'm fine." You have a whole collection of sedatives, all of which you've claimed don't work so you have an excuse not to take them. You hate the feeling of being drugged and, more importantly, anything that can't be mixed with alcohol is a no-go in your book. "Do you know how addictive those things are? I don't even wanna start messing with something like that, considering my great genetics." 

When you turn away from the fridge, unscrewing the cap off a beer bottle, he looks like he doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry or punch a hole in the wall Elliot-style. He shakes his head when he sees you watching him. "Never mind."

He should just be happy that you've moved away from the harder stuff. You did manage to hold off on drinking for a little while once you got home, too distracted by other things after you spent the drive running your hand up and down his thigh. It started as a way to get him to shut the fuck up about Barba, but by the time you reached your building it was you who was practically dragging him down the hall, pushing him up against the door as soon as you had it locked. 

Ten minutes later you were sulking on the couch, glass in hand and legs tucked underneath you. He cautiously starts to sit down at your side, but the look you give him is enough to convince him to keep his distance. "I'm not mad, babe."

"I didn't say you were."

"You've got a lot on your mind, I get it if you're not-"

"Brian."

"All I'm saying is it's not something you should be embarrassed-"

"Brian! Enough. For the love of God, just shut up. Find something else to do. Anything."

He managed to stay out of your way for most of the evening, at least until you came out of the bedroom with an armful of blankets and pillows. You've given up trying to sleep in there, at least until all this is over, and maybe after that you'll finally be able to stop feeling like the walls are closing in on you. 

So as long as you're on the couch, Brian is too. You never exactly came right out and asked him, of course, he just assumed that's what you wanted and he assumed correctly. It's uncomfortable for both of you and you're still not crazy about having someone so close while you're trying to sleep, but at least you get a couple of hours of peace out of it. Then you wake up in hysterics and the cycle repeats itself. 

"You ready to try this again?" he asks when you set down the now-empty bottle. You nod silently, settling back down against him once the lights are off. "Hey. Uh. Thanks."

"Hmm? What for?"

"For...not shutting me out." 

"Yeah." You know he means it, no hidden sarcasm, but it still feels shitty that he's so grateful for you doing nothing more than _not_ slamming the door in his face (be it literally or figuratively). You're hoping he doesn't read more into it than there actually is, because if he thinks you've changed somehow, he's going to be disappointed. The only reason you haven't barricaded yourself in the bathroom to cry alone is because you're too tired for that, because holding onto him in the dark is the path of least resistance and did you mention how tired you are? There's too much darkness, too many secrets coiled up inside you like a snake, and it keeps growing and devouring everything within its reach until there's no room left for anything else. "He wanted to make a deal where he'd plead guilty to rape if he could speak about it at the sentencing. That's what Barba had to tell me."

"How the fuck did he think he was gonna do that?"

"He can't, unless I'm willing to swear under oath that he raped me," you say, the words leaving an acrid taste in your mouth. "Which he did _not_. No way in hell am I gonna perjure myself just so that son of a bitch gets an audience to lie to. Not after...no. No fucking way. But. I don't think Barba believes me."

"He thinks you're lying about being raped? Fuck him."

"I wasn't," you insist, the words an automatic reaction by this point. "After everything I...I wasn't. Wasn't raped. But nobody believes me."

"I do."

You half-snort, half-sniffle in disbelief because while he's never flat out accused you of lying about it, he's also never tried to hide his opinion that you're keeping something from him. "Really."

"What? Yes, really. You've told me you weren't, and I trust you, end of subject. No matter what anyone else thinks."

"Okay," you say softly, even though you're only partially convinced. 

"But, we've never really talked about it, I know, but...ah. I know other things happened, that he...hurt you other ways," and you know he's not referring to your broken wrist, so you close your eyes and hold your breath and just. Wait. For what, you're not sure. "But it doesn't change anything. It doesn't change us, it doesn't...I don't think of you any differently."

Now you're not the only one holding your breath, because he knows this is the part of the conversation where you storm off to start throwing things and/or screaming at him. But you don't get up, and you don't say a word, and you clutch the edge of his sleeve in a fist and wait for him to notice the tears soaking through his shirt. You wish you could believe him. You wish you could let it all out in a torrent of pent-up confessions, but the fact of the matter is that it _would_ change things and he _would_ think of you differently and you just can't take that chance, not when you've already scared Elliot away. Not when Brian's all you have left. He thinks he could handle it, you can tell, but in his typical naive way he has no fucking idea what he's talking about. It's one thing to know the facts, wrapped up in vague phrases like 'aggravated sexual assault' to make them more easily palatable. But to paint the full portrait, to color in the gray spaces and bring them to life- how could you do that to him? 

"I mean it, Liv, there's nothing he could've done to you that would make me stop- uh," and you don't even notice the abrupt end to his sentence, too caught up in the irony. 'There's nothing he could do,' but there's almost certainly things you can and did do that he wouldn't be able to understand, let alone forgive. _«he'll think you're a monster. And that's even before he finds out you're a lying, disgusting whore.»_ "No matter what. Because none of it was your fault, it wasn't something you could've stopped him from...I know you. You're a fighter."

Yeah. A fighter. Like when you let him push you into the shower, too weak and scared to resist, and you didn't bother with pleading for him to stop. You don't even remember saying 'no'. All you did was rest your forehead against the tile in defeat and sob silently to yourself, frozen in place because what was the point, you knew he had you cornered, and you could feel his hands on your ass and then his tongue was- no, God, no, _«you dirty little slut, you love it»_ ohgodnonotagain... "I...okay."

"Okay?"

"When I was, I dunno, 16? Maybe 17? My mom said to me, she told me 'if you get yourself in trouble, you fight like hell. No matter what. Even if he's got a knife, a gun, whatever. If it comes down to the choice of being killed or letting him take what he wants- you're better off dead'," you recite in a dull monotone, still not able to force yourself to look at him.

"Jesus. That's...pretty fucked up."

"Yeah, well, that was my mom."

"But you don't...actually believe that, do you?"

"No. Well." You think about that coat hanger, about that long thin scar that runs parallel to the crease in your inner thigh. _«just leaving something for the next guy who has his face in your cunt to find.»_ “No. But I understand why she said it."

_{how she wishes it was different_  
she prays to God most every night  
and though she swears he doesn't listen  
there's still a hope in her he might} 

Your palms get a little sweaty when you see the return address on the envelope.

Evidently you have been returned to the Stabler family Christmas card list after a two year absence. You wonder whether this was a unilateral decision by Kathy or if Elliot had any input, but most likely he was unaware of this new development. The 'Christmas' cards (which were typically mailed out sometime around the MLK holiday weekend) were solely Kathy's thing. They always included a long letter- the record being seven pages, single spaced- full of the family's trials and tribulations over the past year, some of which Elliot didn't even know about until you gave him the rundown.

This year's edition clocked in at four and a half pages. As usual, most of it was about the kids or Kathy's church activities, but you found yourself trying to read between the lines for clues to...what, exactly? It's not like she was going to devote space to mentioning her husband's new erratic 'work' schedule or come straight out and say "It was wonderful to have all the kids home for Thanksgiving this year and by the way, I think Elliot's cheating on me." 

Nevertheless, you still half-expected the note at the bottom in Kathy's handwriting to say "Here's your new resolution for 2014- stop fucking my husband." It didn't, of course, it was just a promise to invite you and Brian over for brunch again sometime and a "Hope you two are still very happy together." Boy, are you ever. 

Under her signature is a P.S., as though she had been debating on whether or not this should be included and finally decided to go for broke: "you're in our family prayers as always, and we'll be thinking of you over the next few weeks. Take care of yourself." 

Jesus Christ. You need a drink.

_{she says I pray_  
but they fall on deaf ears  
am I supposed to take it on myself  
to get out of this place?} 

In what may or may not be a giant coincidence, you had just sat down with a newly refilled glass when the phone rang. It's Elliot.

About three thousand different thoughts and scenarios run through your head before you even have the phone in your hand. This has to be a good thing, you decide- or at the very least, neutral. If he was still angry, he would just keep on keeping his distance. He wouldn't break the silence after ten days only to say fuck you.

You've got this. You can do it.

"El? Hey. I, uh-" 

"Fuck you, Olivia, what the hell were you thinking?"

_{and though it's red blood bleeding from her now_  
it's more like cold blue ice in her heart  
she feels like kicking out all the windows  
and setting fire to this life} 


End file.
